


The Widow of Willard’s Rest

by MrsMorgan1899



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Morgan Is A Good Man, Arthur has TB, Chapter 5 Spoilers, Gen, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Protective Arthur, Red Dead Redemption 2 Spoilers, Team Charlotte, because I’m still, processing my feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:28:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26660704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsMorgan1899/pseuds/MrsMorgan1899
Summary: This story takes place sometime after the events of Chapter 5 and Guarma (spoilers if you haven’t played that far). Arthur is hurting, fed up with Dutch, and decides to head up north for a few days to clear his head while he tries to hunt the legendary moose Hosea had told him about. His adventures north of Brandywine Drop turn out differently than expected, however, when he meets a young widow.
Relationships: Charlotte Balfour/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 7
Kudos: 39





	1. Moose Hunting

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the first meeting between Arthur and Charlotte— I couldn’t stop thinking about this scene, and wanted to add my own spin to their story, and how he got up there in the first place.

“When will you be back?” Mary-Beth called out as she ran along the path next to Arthur’s horse, hitching up her skirts so she wouldn’t catch them on the roots that stuck up out of the ground all over Beaver Hollow.

“Don’t know,” he grunted, checking his saddle bags one last time to make sure he was loaded up. Food, ammo, liquor. His two favorite guns slung across the shoulders of Grover, his chocolate roan Dutch Warmblood.

“But you _will_ be back?”

He pulled up on Grover’s reins, pausing for a moment. In an uncharacteristic moment of sentimentality he reached down and grasped Mary-Beth’s outstretched hand.

“You know I will,” he said quietly, his rough country accent flattening the vowels. Arthur coughed, a deep sound that wracked his thinning frame, and he pulled his hand away to cover his mouth.

“Be careful. Or whatever your version of that is,” Mary-Beth said, managing to smile a little through her tears.

Without another word he gave Grover a little kick, and disappeared over the hill without looking back.

  
***

Two days had passed since he left the new camp— if you could call it that. Didn’t feel much like home anymore, with Hosea and Lenny gone. Hosea had been more than Dutch’s right hand man, more than a father to Arthur, more than a stabilizing presence to the gang. He’d been their head and their heart. The memory of him being gunned down in the street like some common thief made Arthur’s heart hurt so badly he thought that might kill him before the cough. Arthur didn’t know that he believed in heaven, but he felt sure that if one existed Hosea would talk his way through those pearly gates.

The miles up the mountain passes fell away beneath Grover’s gentle canter, and the air grew colder and full of the promise of snow. Arthur was grateful for the wool-lined coat that he’d bought way back in Blackwater, just because Tilley said the blue suited his eyes. It had been a foolish purchase, until everything went to shit and they had found themselves in the middle of a storm in Colter. Is that where things had gone wrong? Or had they been going wrong longer than that and Arthur had failed to notice? He rubbed one hand along his stubbled chin. Felt like a long time since they’d had a score go down without a thousand problems heaping back on them.

At least up here there probably weren’t any Pinkertons, he thought as he rode on. Just a moose so big it looked like an elephant with antlers, according to Hosea. Hosea had known all the stories of legendary animals that supposedly roamed these parts, and he’d reveled in telling the stories around the campfire— a buck bigger than a draft horse, fish that would sink your boat as soon as get caught. They all sounded like something out of a fairy story, and Arthur loved it. But the one that had caught his fancy was the story Hosea told of a moose, silver and perfect, with antlers white as snow. Arthur was going to catch it, and hang those damn antlers on his tent in tribute.

He was getting close now, he knew. He had been following the trail for some time, noticing the tree rub and broken sticks only an animal that size could leave, but he still hadn’t found it yet. The sun was beginning to dip towards the horizon, and Arthur admitted to himself begrudgingly that he needed rest, real food, and probably some of that medicine Rains Fall had made for him. He passed through a shallow part of the river with a small island, and decided that this grove of trees would make for a good spot.

Arthur slid down from Grover with a practiced grace that belied how much his body was hurting him, and got to work setting up camp. In no time he had his tent pitched, and a crackling fire going. The day had faded into a beautiful clear night, and there were rabbits aplenty. This was heaven compared to camp, where the tension was so thick a man couldn’t sleep.

After eating most of a fat, juicy rabbit that he’d rubbed with a little bit of sage, Arthur grabbed his rifle and headed upriver a little. He hoped that dusk might bring that moose down to drink, making his life easier. A sound stopped him as he walked. Was that… crying?

He looked around, his eyes still adjusting to the dim evening. There, in a small clearing, he saw a lantern propped next to what looked like a large pile of dirt. As Arthur moved closer, the sniffling got louder. Finally he saw her— a woman wearing more dirt than clothing, knelt down next to the pile of dirt with one hand clasped around a bunch of small purple flowers.

“Oh Cal,” she said, “I’m so sorry. So sorry…” another sob broke off her words.

Arthur cleared his throat and the woman gasped, looking around wildly but blinded by her own lantern. He stepped into the circle of light, hands outstretched in a gesture of peace.

“What do you want?” she demanded, her dirt-streaked face contorted in fear.

“I don’t mean you no harm, ma’am,” he said, as gently as he could. “I was just passing through and I heard... well, I heard you crying.” he said, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as he realized that the dirt pile was in fact a freshly dug grave. “Is there anything I can do? Is there a town or a train station I can take you to?”

The woman sat back on her heels and stared at him hard. “There’s nothing you can do. Not unless you can bring back my husband,” she said bitterly, laying the flowers down on the bigger of the dirt piles.

“I’m awful sorry about your loss ma’am,” Arthur said, taking his hat off. “I lost someone recently myself.”

“Oh?”

“My… my father.” It wasn’t quite a lie, even if it wasn’t quite the truth. Hosea had been more father to him than the bastard who bore him.

Her face softened. “It’s awful isn’t it? Losing someone you love.” She stood, wiped at the corner of her face with her dirty apron, and straightened her back.

“I’m Charlotte,” she said. “Charlotte Balfour.”

“Arthur Morgan.”

“Well, Mr. Morgan. What _does_ bring you to these parts?”

“I’m hunting a moose,” he said. Charlotte’s laughter surprised him.

“A moose? My goodness. I don’t know the first thing about hunting. I’ve barely been able to catch a mouse.”

“What? You can’t live on mice. What have you been eating?”

“Not much of anything, really,” Charlotte said, her voice almost wistful, and Arthur recognized that look. He had looked like that once, hungry and lost. Then Hosea had found him. Taken him in, a scrawny 14-year old with that look in his eye, and fed him. Suddenly he felt resolved to return the favor.

“Well if you don’t mind my saying so, that just won’t do Mrs. Balfour. Let me teach you how to hunt.”

“Me? Hunt?” She laughed again, but this time it sounded less bitter. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. If you want someone to find poisonous berries, I’m your girl, but I don’t know the first thing about guns, or shooting animals.”

“Well, how about we start with skinning one, then? I caught two rabbits earlier, and I only ate one. If you can skin it, I let you keep it,” Arthur said with a grin. Charlotte’s eyes lit up. He could only imagine how hungry she must really be to have such an offer sound enticing, and he regretted a little that he had teased her.

“Alright,” she said finally. “If I’m going to make it out here I suppose that skinning an animal is the least I can learn how to do. But don’t try any funny business,” she continued sharply. “I may be a woman alone out here, but I assure you I am far from helpless.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, bowing to her as he replaced his hat on his head. “C’mon down this way, the rabbit’s keeping cool in the water.” He gestured towards his camp, just barely visible through the trees, and she walked a little ahead of him towards the leafy clearing.

“How did your husband pass, Mrs. Balfour? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“He was attacked by a bear,” Charlotte said after a long pause. “It was awful. The damned thing killed him right in front of the house, and kept coming back for more.” Her voice cracked, and Arthur realized that she was crying again. He wished he had a handkerchief to offer her, like he’d seen in a movie once, but all he had was the dirty bandana around his neck. “It was two days before I could bury him,” she continued. “Or what was left of him. That was a week ago.”

That explained the dirt, he thought. They turned down a little path that a Arthur had trodden out in the underbrush earlier that day.

“Forgive me,” Arthur said, “but why have you stayed? Isn’t there somewhere for you to go back to? Life wherever you’re from must be easier than it is out here.”

“I could go back to my family in Chicago,” Charlotte said, “but I won’t.” Her voice was steely again, and Arthur turned away to conceal his half smile. She was tougher than she looked, this little woman with the dark hair. “I don’t expect you to understand,” she said, mistaking his smile for mocking. “This is something I _have_ to do. Cal and I… life is Chicago is easy alright, but it’s boring. There’s nothing to test you! No way to see what you’re made of. We came out here because we wanted to find something authentic... something real.” She swallowed hard, and blinked back tears. “It seems so foolish, now.”

“You were very brave to do what you done,” Arthur said. They had reached the river, and he knelt down to pull the rabbit out of the cool water.

“Brave? To hide in the house while my husband was mauled to death? I don’t think so.”

“Yes ma’am, brave.” Arthur’s voice was gentle, but firm. “Don’t matter how scared you were inside. You came back out of that house after a terrible thing happened, and you did what needed to be done.” His hands picked at the knots he had tied around the rabbits foot, and found himself wishing he had been brave enough to go back for Lenny. Instead he had followed Dutch, and where had that gotten him? His skin still prickled with rage when he thought of Guarma. How stupid. He would be forever grateful to Sadie for stealing Lenny’s body back from the morgue and burying him proper. Charlotte’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Mr. Morgan… I thought I was the one meant to be skinning the animal?”

He looked down at his hands, and saw that he had been unconsciously pulling at the skin on the rabbit’s legs. Arthur grunted, and thrust the rabbit towards her.

“Right. Just, grab that there,” he said, pointing to a patch of skin, “and tear down, hard and fast. Skin’ll come right off.”

Charlotte grasped the rabbit where he had shown her, and pulled. She laughed in frustration when nothing happened. “Well,” she said, “that won’t do.” She adjusted her grip, looked hard at the rabbit for a moment, and then with great concentration and a satisfying ripping sound she pulled it’s skin clean off. She stood there for a moment, holding both rabbit and skin akimbo as if she couldn’t quite believe it.

“‘Atta girl!” Arthur cheered. “That’ll keep you fed for at least a couple of days.”

“Oh, Arthur! Mr…Mr. Morgan. Thank you. Really. I thought for sure I would starve, and now…”

The color was high in her cheeks, chest heaving, and her eyes sparkled with tears and excitement. She was quite striking, even under all that dirt, Arthur thought as he inclined his head towards her ever so slightly. He had a sudden image of Mary trying to skin a rabbit, and knew that he would never have seen her do what this woman had just done. Another part of his life she wanted nothing to do with.

“Best head back,” Charlotte said, slinging the rabbit over her shoulder with determination. “Get this thing in the stew pot.”

“After you,” he said, gesturing back up the path. They walked along in amiable silence.

“Mr. Morgan,” Charlotte said after a few moments, “how did you lose your father? If you don’t mind my asking.”

Arthur cleared is throat, and rubbed a spot behind his ear hard. “He was shot,” he answered her finally. “Gunned down during a robbery.”

“How terrible,” she said. “I’m so sorry. And your mother?”

“Aw, she died when I was real young,” Arthur said. “I really didn’t know her, to be honest.”

A few twigs cracked in the woods up ahead, and the chilling howl of a wolf rippled through the air. It was joined quickly by two more keening voices. Arthur dropped his rifle from his shoulder into his hands, and thrust an arm out to stop Charlotte from walking any further.

“Get behind me, and don’t panic,” he said, low and firm. He drew a steadying breath. Two huge timber wolves burst out of the woods ahead of them, running at full speed towards where he and Charlotte stood. He heard her sharp intake of breath, but she stayed behind him and didn’t scream. Good girl.

Whenever he was in conflict it seemed like time slowed down. He could see things with such clarity, and focus on them as if nothing else in the world existed. Before he hardly knew he’d done it, Arthur had dropped the big one on the left with a shot to the face, and unloaded two bullets into the other one. They lay still, blood matting in their thick coats. He became vaguely aware of Charlotte gripping his arm.

“I thought I heard three?”

He nodded. “They’re trying to flank us. Be still.” She dropped her hand and nodded solemnly. More cracking twigs on the left. Arthur turned sharply, exhaling as he focused all his senses on the wolf. It was stalking them, he knew, and could almost certainly see them even though they couldn’t yet see him. A sudden movement on his left alerted him. This wolf was even bigger than the other two, and it was heading straight for Charlotte. Arthur stepped in between them with confidence, and fired three shots directly into the wolf’s forehead. It dropped to the ground without so much as a whimper. Charlotte exhaled raggedly.

“That’s twice in one day you’ve saved my life, Mr. Morgan. Thank you.”

“We’ll call it one for you and one for me,”Arthur said, as he wiped down his gun and slung it back over his shoulder. “Wolf that size could have got us both in about two minutes flat and gone for my horse besides.”

“I haven’t seen many wolves around here,” Charlotte said, “what do you think brought them?”

“Oh, they probably smelled the rabbit I cooked for my dinner earlier. But you got nothing to worry about, cooking inside.”

“Oh! I had almost forgotten my rabbit. Yes, I’m eager to eat something other than dried biscuits tonight,” she said. “Shall we? The cabin is just up this way.”

They walked together up a small hill, and Arthur saw the cabin tucked cozily into a clearing in the pines. It was a beautiful thing, made of split logs and tar with real glass windows that they’d probably packed in from Chicago. Might be that Cal couldn’t hunt, but he could certainly build a house. They walked up the steps to the front door, and Arthur turned to survey the area.

“You know, Mrs. Balfour, this is a real nice spot you got here. Lots of clean water, plenty of wildlife. I reckon if you’re serious you could really make a go of it here.”

Charlotte laid a hand on his arm, gently. “Thank you Mr. Morgan. For everything. I would invite you in, but I’m dead on my feet… if you’ll forgive the expression.”

Arthur smiled, and bowed his head. “I’m just down the way at camp,” he said. “I’ll be around for a few days until I bring in that moose. You holler if you need anything, Mrs. Balfour, ya hear?”

“I will,” she said, smiling. “And call me Charlotte, please.”

Arthur couldn’t help but grin. “Good night, Charlotte,” he said, making his way back down the steps. His smile was the most genuine it had been in weeks, and he felt a warmth inside him that he’d almost forgotten he knew how to feel.

“Good night, Arthur.”


	2. Remember to Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Charlotte meet a man from Emerald Ranch; someone from camp tracks Arthur down

A light rain drizzled down that night, drumming on the tent and lulling Arthur into a fitful sleep. He kept having the same dream lately. He’d been having it for weeks. A golden meadow, light streaming from a low sun, and a huge buck browsing in the grass. The buck would lift his head and stare straight at him. Through him. As if somehow that buck could see his innermost thoughts and feelings. Arthur felt comforted in the dream, as if he were being protected by a vision.

He awoke with a start, but the night was quiet. He made a mental note to ask Rains Fall if he thought the dreams had any meaning. The chief was the only man Arthur knew who wouldn’t outright mock him for analyzing his dreams.

Then he heard the screaming.

Arthur was out of his tent and running towards the cabin with a gun in his hands before he was even fully awake, tearing up the hill and into the clearing. Charlotte screamed again, and he heard the sound of something breaking against the wall. Hot rage filled his throat like bile. He ran up the stairs and into her cabin, roaring like a bear as he burst through the front door.

A man in a dirty green overcoat had pinned Charlotte to the floor and was pawing at her nightshift. His lank black hair hung down from the sides and back of his head like a monk who’d gone too long without a haircut. Charlotte struggled beneath him, eyes wide with fear and unable to speak. From the looks of the kitchen she had been throwing her soup plates at him, but it hadn’t stopped his advances. Arthur aimed his rifle at the man, before the cooler voice in his head realized that if he shot the man at this range, he would most certainly hit Charlotte too.

“Get the hell off her!” Arthur bellowed, reaching down and grabbing the man’s collar like a kitten. He threw the man against the opposite wall and watched him slide down in a crumpled pile. In two strides Arthur was across the room and had him by the throat.

“Who are you?” he demanded, shaking the man with one powerful hand.

“I’m…her…fiancé…” the man gasped. Arthur glanced back at Charlotte, who was now huddled in front of the fireplace. Her shoulders trembled with silent sobs, but she managed to shake her head no.

“I’ve never seen this man before, Arthur,” she said between ragged breaths. “I swear.”

“You know I believe you, Mrs. Balfour,” Arthur said mildly. He turned to the man and backhanded him hard across the cheek. The man yelped in pain. Arthur dragged him in closer to his face.

“This fine lady is a _widow_ ,” he hissed. “Do you know what that means, you backwater piece of trash? That means that her husband is dead, may he rest in peace. Where in the hell did you get the idea that she had promised herself to the likes of you?”

“We talked,” the man insisted, signs of a bruise already showing on his pale face. “At the train station in Emerald Ranch. She was with her sister on the train, and we talked. My darling, don’t you remember? We talked, and I’ve been watching you ever since. Protecting you.”

Arthur looked at Charlotte without loosening his grip on the wretched man and saw a look of horrified recognition cross her face.

“My lord,” she whispered, “I do remember you. My sister had come down from Chicago,” she said to Arthur. “Right after Cal and I had first arrived. She was bringing some sundries from the city to sustain us while we finished building, and I rode with her on the train for a while so we would have more time to visit. This man, he… he was talking to us. On the train. At the station. I just thought he was being friendly, but…” her voice trailed off. “How long have you been following me?”

The man grinned then, showing gaps in between teeth streaked with blood. “Since your husband told me to.”

Arthur hit him again, harder. “Show some damn respect!”

“He did!” the man insisted. “I spoke to him at the general store, and he told me that he didn’t know what his lovely wife would do if anything happened to him. I knew it then. I knew that he was asking me to care for you in his absence.” The man’s voice grew higher and wilder with each word. Arthur felt sick listening to him and clamped down harder on his neck to stop him from talking.

“I gave him some predator bait,” the man managed to choke out. “He told me that you’d been struggling to catch anything big enough to bother with.”

A feeling of understanding rose in Arthur, muted by disgust as the man’s full meaning became clear. Predator bait. Cal had been carrying predator bait. He probably reeked of it, and then came riding back through the woods alone, at night. Arthur slammed the man down into the floor, crushing his windpipe beneath his huge palm. It would be so easy, Arthur thought. So easy to just snuff this man out like the weak little weasel he was and call it a night.

“Mr. Morgan, no!” Charlotte was suddenly behind him, hands pressed down on Arthur’s shoulders in a plea. “Arthur. Please.”

Reluctantly he loosened his grip on the man, who fell away from him sputtering and coughing.

“Get me some rope, then,” Arthur said gruffly. “I’ll respect your wish not to kill him, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him sit in your house a free man.”

Charlotte fetched a length of rope from the shed, and Arthur trussed the man up with practiced movements. He rocked and moaned on the floor, nonsense that sounded a lot like _Mrs. Charlotte_ something. Arthur kicked him once and he quieted.

“What now?” Charlotte asked him. She had wrapped herself in a quilt and was seated at the table. Arthur began to go through the man’s coat pockets. A silver pocket watch, 50 cents, and a cigar fell out of one side. The other pocket was filled with what felt like postcards. Arthur pulled them out and realized quickly that they were photographs. Of women. Of Charlotte.

Heat rose in his cheeks as he saw pictures of Charlotte cooking at the stove, pictures of her in her nightshift, pictures of her bathing in the river. He looked away from the last ones quickly.

“The way I see it, you have two choices,” Arthur said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. “Choice one, I can take him to the Sherriff down in Valentine and we can let the law have him.”

“What’s choice number two?”

Arthur handed her the photographs, and watched her face harden as she went through them.

“You let me deal with him as I see fit,” he said darkly.

Charlotte looked up at him, tears rolling down her cheeks. Without a word she nodded, and then turned away from him.

“Time to go, little man,” Arthur said, and hoisted him up over his shoulder.

  
  


When he returned to the cabin awhile later, Charlotte had not moved from her chair at the table. Arthur didn’t speak, but instead busied himself making a pot of coffee and cutting some of the bread that lay on the counter. He had been careful to stop and wash at the creek by his camp before coming back to the house. He placed a mug and plate in front of her, but Charlotte still didn’t move.

With all the gentleness he had, Arthur laid his fingers on her shoulder. To his surprise she reached up, taking his sun-browned hand in her pale one and squeezing tightly. He knelt in front of her and she fell into him, sobbing into his shoulder. Arthur held her there until her tears had quieted, murmuring softly as he rocked her.

“I dread to think what might’ve happened if you hadn’t been camping so nearby,” she whispered. She trembled in his arms, and with his nose pressed into her hair he couldn’t help but notice that she smelled like lilacs. He hadn’t smelled that scent since he was a child back East. His mother had loved to place lilacs in a jar beside his bed.

“Don’t you worry about that now,” he said, drying her tears with the edge of her shawl. “You’re gonna be just fine.”

He reached down to grasp her other hand, and found it clenched in her lap with the photographs gripped tight inside. With infinite tenderness Arthur pried the pictures loose. Then he stood up and threw them into the fire one by one.

“I’m so ashamed, Mr. Morgan,” she said, her voice hoarse. That was twice now she’d called him that, Arthur noticed. He couldn’t blame her. She talked to that weird little man at a train station and he thought they were engaged. What might someone on a first name basis with her do?

“Somehow I said something, or did something that made that man think… made him do… _Cal_ …” she sobbed again, dropping her head into her hands.

“Now you listen to me,” Arthur said, “You didn’t do nothing or say nothing that could make that man do or not do anything. He was a lunatic, Mrs. Balfour. You were just the unfortunate target of his insane ramblings, and you are innocent of any kind of wrongdoing here. You hear me?”

She nodded miserably. He was grateful that she didn’t ask about his use of the word _was_.

“C’mon,” Arthur said, “Let’s get you to bed. You need some rest, and to not worry no more tonight.” He wanted to scoop her up in his arms and carry her across the threshold, but he figured she’d been manhandled enough tonight and offered her his arm instead. She clung to him, her face pressed lightly into his upper arm.

“Will you stay?” Charlotte said. “In the house, I mean,” she added quickly, her thin cheeks coloring. “I don’t think I could bear to be alone tonight.”

Arthur nodded as he guided her to her room. “I’ll be right out here, and I won’t let nothing happen to you. You have my word. Are you sure you’re gonna be alright?”

Charlotte sat on the edge of her bed, still trembling in her shawl.

“Yes,” she said, “but leave the door open, would you? And maybe a lamp lit?”

Arthur nodded again, making sure she watched him leave the door open. He settled in the kitchen sitting in a chair with his back against the door and tilted his hat down over his eyes. From the bedroom, he heard a small voice.

“Goodnight, Mr. Morgan.”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Balfour,” he replied, and closed his eyes.

By the time Charlotte awoke the next morning Arthur had made coffee and breakfast, which were awaiting her hot on the table when she emerged from her room. She was dressed in a clean blue shirt and a long brown skirt that was belted around her trim waist. Her dark hair was re-plaited neatly and pinned up, in stark contrast to the mess it had been last night.

“How’re you feeling, Ma’am?”

“Mr. Morgan, there was no need for you to trouble yourself like this,” she chided, but he cut her off by pulling out her chair and shepherding her into it.

“You know how to use that thing?” he asked, nodding towards the rifle that hung over the fireplace.

“I get the general idea of how it works,” she said carefully, “and I keep thinking one day I’ll get around to learning how to use it, but…”

“Today,” he announced, “you learn to use that rifle today. And you can’t shoot on an empty stomach, so eat.”

Charlotte nodded, and dipped her spoon into the porridge he’d made. “Are those…blackberries? My word. It’s been so long since I’ve tasted something so sweet!”

“There’s a whole stand of ‘em on a ridge down by the edge of the water. I can show you later, if you like.”

She nodded, eyes half closed in ecstasy as she carefully ate another berry. It’s funny how a little thing like that tastes so good when you’re half-starved, Arthur reflected. Even with the pallor on her cheeks from the events of the evening and the gaunt edges to her frame, he thought Charlotte looked lovely. Delicate but strong, like a fine china. Arthur cleared his throat, and pushed back from the table suddenly.

“You take your time,” he said, jamming his hat down onto his head fast so she couldn’t see the redness in his cheeks. “I’ll be about rustling up some bottles for you to practice on.”

She met him awhile later out by the shed, where Arthur had set up a collection of tin cans and bottles that he’d scavenged from the old shack. She carried Cal’s old rifle, and Arthur could tell by the way she cradled it that she didn’t know the first thing about using it except maybe which end went bang.

“Alright,” he said, “let’s see you take a crack at one of them cans.”

“Very well.” Charlotte did her best to aim, and pulled the trigger. The shot went wide, hitting the shed with a dull cracking sound. Arthur worked hard not to let her see his smile, tucking his fingers into his belt as he watched.

“Try again,” he said. She fired off a few more rounds, hitting nothing.

“Well. My prey is looking decidedly unscathed.”

Arthur chuckled.

“I am determined to do this,” Charlotte said, and he could see by the set of her mouth that she meant it. She spoke more to herself than to him, a habit you pick up when you’re living alone. “And I am willing to work for it. The aim of labor is leisure, isn’t that what Aristotle said?”

“Erm, I don’t know much about Aristotle,” Arthur admitted, nudging the barrel of the gun away from Charlotte’s face as she set it down to listen to him. “But I know a thing or two about shooting a gun.” He turned her gently by the shoulders to correct her stance. She took aim again.

“Just focus,” he said, his voice low in her ears. “Breathe slowly. And always pull the trigger on empty lungs.” His hand had stayed on her shoulders, and the scent of lilacs on the air made him suddenly very aware of the lack of space between them. Arthur cleared throat and pulled away.

“Here,” he said as he unholstered his pistol, “I’ll show you. Calm and steady, don’t snatch at the trigger.” Charlotte lowered the rifle and watched as Arthur aimed, took a shot, and one of the bottles exploded.

“You make it look so easy,” she said, laughing. He grinned.

“Try again,” he said. “Remember to breathe.”

Charlotte fixed her feet in position and raised the rifle. The sun caught the filaments of red in her hair, turning them a golden copper. _Remember to breathe_ , he told himself.

“Wait to breathe out… wait to breathe out…” she whispered under her breath. A stand of hair had fallen into her eye. Arthur restrained himself from brushing it back, and jammed his thumbs deeper into his belt loops. This time when she fired one of the cans rattled a bit, although it didn’t quite fall over.

“Would you look at that?” She said, pleased. “That was close.”

“Not bad,” Arthur said, “focus on the inhale, shoot on the exhale. My turn.” He raised his pistol and shot a bottle and a can in quick succession.

“Show off,” Charlotte said with a sly smile. “Alright, let me try again.” She raised the rifle, breathed deep. Arthur could hear her exhale slowly, and then a can went flying off the old stump where he had arranged them.

“I did it!” Charlotte cried with an exultant laugh. “Didn’t I?”

Arthur laughed, full and long. “Yes, yes you did. Now all you need is a bit of practice.”

“Mr. Morgan,” Charlotte said suddenly, “would you take me along on your moose hunt?”

Arthur almost dropped his pistol in surprise.

“You want to go hunting… with me?”

“I promise I won’t be in the way,” she said quickly, “nor a burden. I learn fast, and I can do… well, I don’t know what I can do, but if I can find a way to be helpful I will.”

She was so earnest, he thought, his eyes searching her face.

“Well, he said slowly, “I suppose it couldn’t hurt. Might be all for nothing, mind. There’s no guarantee I’ll even find this moose, never mind kill it.”

“I understand. I just feel that if I could watch a master at work…”

Arthur laughed again, the redness surging back to his cheeks. “A master? I don’t know about all that.”

“Please, Mr. Morgan. I think it would be most instructive.”

He scratched his chin thoughtfully.

“Alright,” he said at last. “I’ll be heading out at dawn, and you’ll need to promise to do exactly as I say. Hunting moose can be dangerous.”

“I promise,” she said, eager as a child. “Now. All this shooting has worked up an appetite in me. I got some of that rabbit salted up yesterday before… well. You know.” She cleared her throat. “Will you join me for a meal?”

“I’d be honored,” he said. “After you, ma’am.”

***

“Arthur? Arthur!” Sadie’s voice floated around Arthur’s skull, knocking at his temples like a headache. He grunted, and pulled his hat lower across his eyes.

“Not now, woman,” he mumbled.

“Arthur Morgan, are you in there?” The pounding on the door startled him, so that he nearly fell out of the chair as he came fully awake.

“Jesus!”

“Now I know you are,” Sadie said, laughing. “Open the damn door, would you?”

He had slept in the kitchen again, a double-barreled shotgun slung across his lap. Arthur didn’t think that there was any real danger now that he’d dealt with her stalker, but it made Charlotte feel better and it was nicer than sleeping in the rain again.

Arthur opened the door to find Sadie on the porch, looking bright as a new day. No amount of dirt or grime or blood seemed to be able to dull the woman’s spark, he thought affectionately. Sadie had become like a younger sister to him— someone he felt like he had to keep an eye on, because if he didn’t who knew what kind of trouble she might get into? A den of O’Driscolls, usually. The way she’d been whittling away at that gang over the last few months, though, they were hardly a threat anymore.

“How’d you find me?” He yawned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with a rough hand. “I didn’t tell no one where I was going.”

“Mary-Beth read your journal,” Sadie said, pushing past him into the house.

“She what?”

“Now, don’t get a bee in your bonnet,” Sadie set about making coffee. “She got the sense you was leaving, and apparently every time she gets that feeling she reads your journal to see if you’ve written anything about where you’re headed.”

Arthur thought back on all the times someone had shown up to bring him back from the wilderness when Dutch felt he’d been gone too long, and shook his head.

“Damn little girl’s cleverer than I’d thought,” he said.

“Ain’t we all?” Sadie’s smile walked the line between genuine and teasing.

“Alright, alright. Well, you found me,” he said, spreading his hands wide. “Now what are you doin’ here?”

The line of her mouth went from smiling to firm in an instant. “They got Colm O’Driscoll, down in Saint Denis. He’s gonna swing.”

“Great,” Arthur said mildly. “He has it coming.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Sadie said, gripping his arm with a strength that surprised him. “He’s been sentenced to hang before, _three times_. His boys always manage to get him out at the last second.”

“Great,” Arthur said, “then I guess he’ll go free.”

“Arthur.” Sadie’s voice was flat.

“Naw, now don’t you _Arthur_ me,” he said. “You know I ain’t no friend of Colm’s, but what’s all this got to do with me? If he’s been set to swing three times and he’s walked three times, guess what? He’ll probably walk again.”

“That can’t happen this time. After what he did to me? After what they did to my Jakey? No. No way in hell is he walking out of there a free man. I intend to see him swing, and I need you to help me.”

“Just how in the hell we gonna make sure his boys don’t get a hold of him?”

Sadie shrugged, poured some coffee into a mug and handed it to Arthur.

“Dutch says he got a plan.”

“Yeah, Dutch always has a plan,” Arthur said, taking a careful sip from the hot cup. He thought back to when he’d been trapped in the cellar of one of Colm O’Driscoll’s safe houses, hanging from his feet while the gunshot wound in his shoulder dripped his life away. Where was Dutch and all his plans then? That weren’t Sadie’s fault, though. He gritted his teeth. It would be nice to finally see that bastard O’Driscoll at the end of a rope, if they could manage.

“Please, Arthur. Please?”

Arthur sighed deeply. “Yeah, alright. I’ll help you with Colm.

“Oh, Arthur thank you! Thank you.” She squeezed his arm again, and her blue green eyes sparkled with tears. “Maybe then my boy can finally rest in peace.”

“Good morning,” a voice said from the bedroom door. Arthur startled. For a moment he’d almost forgotten that this wasn’t his house he’d let Sadie Adler into, and he felt himself flush with shame as he watched Charlotte taking in the scene: two mostly strangers armed to the teeth, drinking her coffee in her kitchen. If she was surprised or upset you’d never have known it, Arthur thought as his eyes met hers. Woman’d make a damn fine poker player if she had the taste for it.

“Mrs. Balfour,” he said. “I apologize, I…”

“Name’s Sadie,” the blonde said, sticking her hand out to the other woman, who graciously took it and tried to shake. “Sadie Adler. Me and Arthur, we… work for the same man.” Arthur met Sadie’s eyes on the slant and he almost laughed at the description, as if they worked for Dutch at the bank rather than trying to rob one.

“Ah. Pleasure to meet you Miss Adler.”

“Mrs.,” Sadie corrected quietly. “Mrs. Adler. But I lost my husband last year.”

The tightness fell from Charlotte’s face, and she reached her hands out to Sadie.

“My dear girl, I’m so sorry. I lost my husband too, just recently.”

Sadie grasped Charlotte’s hands back. “Ain’t widowhood just a kick in the pants?”

Charlotte laughed. “Yes. Yes, I suppose it it. Would you like to go for a walk, Mrs. Adler? I usually take one before breakfast, and I’d love to hear more about how you came to be in Mr. Morgan’s line of work.”

“I’d like that,” Sadie said brightly. “Been ages since I had any decent female company. Lead the way.”

“We’ll return, Mr. Morgan,” Charlotte said with a nod towards him. “Do try not to let anyone else in the house while I’m out?” She grabbed a shawl from where it hung on a nail and swept out the front door.

“Ma’am,” he nodded back, blushing as he dipped his head.

“Bye, _Arthur_ ,” Sadie said, picking up her jacket as she strolled towards the door.

“Careful Sadie,” Arthur murmured under his breath. “You know the rules.”

“Don’t you worry, I’m gonna make this woman a friend of ours for life.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  
  


The women returned awhile later to find Arthur on the porch bench, feet up on the rail, a trail of smoke curling toward the sky from the end of his cigarette. He was glad that they had missed the coughing fit he’d had while they were gone. Didn’t need them fussing over him. Charlotte sat down next to him, at the far end of the bench.

“Sadie tells me that you’re needed back at camp,” she said lightly. Arthur nodded once. It twisted him in the gut to realize that he didn’t want to leave. His two days at Willard’s Rest had felt longer, somehow more complete than that amount of time would suggest.

“‘Afraid we’ll have to postpone our hunting trip,” he said. “I’m awful sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said kindly. “Your family needs you. It must be nice.”

Family. It had been that once, Arthur thought. All the warmth had gone out of camp when Lenny and Hosea died. What made it feel like family now? Dusk began to fall around them, casting long shadows through the trees as Sadie fed the horses and checked the saddles. She was one of the only things keeping him there, Arthur realized. Wanting to watch over Jack, too, and see to it that Miss Grimshaw and the girls got treated right. That, and whatever was left of his loyalty to Dutch. Every time he looked at it too close he felt like he could see all the holes in The Plan that he never saw before. When he closed his eyes at night sometimes he still saw Dutch strangling that old woman in Guarma, for no good reason. It set his teeth on edge to think about it.

”I understand from my talk with Sadie that you’re...more than just an accomplished outdoorsman,” Charlotte continued. “But I think I knew that,” she said, her eyes roaming over his various weapons and lingering as the black bandana around his neck. “Especially after the way you handled things the other night with such...”

”Ease?” Arthur supplied. He knew what he was and he wasn’t ashamed, but he found himself caring about what this woman thought of him.

”Yes, that’s it,” she said, “ease. And if you hadn’t I’d be dead, or....well. Whatever you do, Mr. Morgan, you’re a good man.”

”Aw, well, you don’t really know me,” he said, crushing out the end of the cigarette on the sole of his boot.

”I know that you showed me kindness when no one else had. I know that you’ve saved my life at least twice now. I’m glad to count a friend like you in my corner, Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur felt that little corner of his heart that had warmed the other night growing bigger. Friend?   
“I’m honored to hear you say that, ma’am,” he said, and it was true. He coughed a little to cover his embarrassment.

“At least let me feed you before you go,” Charlotte said, standing up. She clapped her hands as she said it, and Arthur knew it wasn’t a question. He shook his thoughts clear and nodded again. “Would you be a dear and set the table? There’s another chair in the second bedroom.”

Arthur couldn’t help but smile as they moved around the kitchen harmoniously, the most domestic dance he’d done in a long time. He could see how people took to this sort of life, he thought as the women chatted over rabbit stew. It felt good to feel part of a home.

The moon was high by the time they finished and mounted up. Arthur stared hard at Charlotte‘s face, bathed in silvery light, committing each detail to memory so he could draw her later.

“Charlotte…Mrs. Balfour,” he said, “May I write to you?”

She looked startled. Arthur was just about to feel foolish when her look of surprise changed to a warm smile.

“I’d like that,” she said. “Very much.”

He tipped his hat to her.

“Goodnight, Mrs. Balfour. You keep that rifle close, now.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Morgan. I will.”


	3. A Good Man, and a Kind One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur helps John blow up a bridge, they have a heart to heart about the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not super happy with this chapter but I felt like I needed to publish it so I can move on with the story! There will almost certainly be edits going forward, and I would love some feedback about what is/isn’t working.

**September 5 th, 1899**

_**My dear Arthur ,** _

__

_**I went out hunting again today and actually enjoyed myself. Not a sentence I ever thought I would write , nor is it one that I would have written if it were not for you. Meeting you that day certainly saved my life , and it seems to have changed it as well. I have remembered your advice and am doing my utmost to shoot on the exhale.** _

_**You will be pleased to know that since our lesson I have successfully shot and skinned a badger, another several rabbits, and a fox that was entirely too curious about my chickens. Well, I shot at the fox, anyway. She had six gray kits with her and I could not bear to finish the job. I also shot the friend of that rat you killed for me, although I omitted it from my stew and left it as a peace offering for the fox instead.** _

_**Next week my sister is coming to visit from Chicago and I am sure that she will make much of my learning how to use that rifle. Perhaps I will show her how to skin a rabbit? That would certainly give her something to talk about at parties for the rest of the season. You have my word that I will not speak to any strange men at the train station.** _

_**Please give my best to Mrs. Adler and the rest of your family. While I know they are not eager to part with you, I hope that you might find time to come North again soon to visit. I promise that my stews are getting better, and I want to show you the new henhouse and the gardens. While I do not know exactly where you are or what you might be doing, I hope that you are being the man I know you to be. A good man, and a kind one.** _

__

_**Yours affectionately,** _

_**Charlotte** _

Arthur folded the letter from Charlotte carefully and tucked it in the breast pocket of his shirt, hearing her voice echo in his head. _A good man, and a kind one._ He wasn’t sure that anyone had ever used those words to describe him, at least not all at once. He’d done the odd good deed like helping someone get home when her horse had hobbled her, and he thought he’d been kind once or twice, but Charlotte used the words like they were something that defined him. What was she seeing that he didn’t see? He’d stayed in a hotel the night he picked up her letter in Saint Denis, and every time he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror he couldn’t help but think he was getting old, or that he was looking a little worn out and sad.

Arthur looked out over Bacchus Bridge, soaking in the solitude of the mountain pass where the bridge was nestled. It was a beautiful spot. Too bad he and John were about to wreck that serenity with about eight bundles of dynamite. Grover nipped at his shoulder, and Arthur dug a few sugar cubes out of his pocket. They’d been here for a few hours now waiting for John to ride up from Beaver Hollow, and both he and the horse were getting antsy. Arthur soothed his nerves by reading and re-reading Charlotte’s letter. Grover soothed his by trying to eat Arthur’s jacket.

“You’re all right, boy,” he murmured, rubbing hand affectionately across the horse’s muzzle. Grover pressed his nose into Arthur’s palm, offering the same reassurance back.

“Arthur!” He heard John’s voice before he could see him.

“Back here,” he called, looking out from behind the wood pile where he’d been leaning. John gave a wave from the wagon. Something about the way the light was hitting him made him look about 18 again and Arthur felt a pang of nostalgia hit him in the chest like a pain. He rubbed at his arm. Marston might be an obnoxious, loudmouth, pain in the ass but he was the closest thing Arthur had ever had to a brother. Maybe those qualities were the very things that made him brotherly, Arthur reflected with a wry smile. They had come into the gang around the same time and come up together. Dutch had taught them both how to read using the bounty posters he ripped down in the towns they passed through, and Hosea followed up with lessons from the Bible and chapters from adventure novels whenever he managed to get ahold of them. It might have been an uneven upbringing, but it was something they shared.

John pulled the wagon up just past the end of the platform and jumped down.

“How you doing?” Arthur asked.

“Good,” John said. “Nervous. But I been nervous for awhile.” Arthur nodded his agreement. John passed him a cigarette and was about to strike a match when Arthur looked meaningfully at the wagon full of dynamite. He nodded once towards the railway building and they moved towards it, lighting up with almost synchronized movements.

“I had a lot of time to think while I was in that jail,” John went on. He let out a long stream of gray smoke. “I just feel like I don’t know Dutch no more.”

“You ain’t the only one,” Arthur said, grinding the end of his cigarette between his teeth. They finished smoking and got to unloading the wagon.

“I mean I love Dutch,” John said as they pulled down crates of dynamite and loaded them onto a handcart. “He saved me a long time ago. But at that bank job in Saint Denis… I feel like in Saint Denis, when I got arrested, he could have done something. What do you think?”

Arthur paused a moment to catch his breath. He wrestled with himself over what he wanted to say to John. Would John understand? Or would he think Arthur was the rat and say so to Dutch? Or worse, would John pull his gun on him? He was almost as quick a draw as Arthur, but at the end of the day Arthur knew he was faster. He’d hate to kill John after all these years together. Trust wasn’t a feeling that Arthur was truly intimate with, but he’d had it with Hosea and he felt almost that way with John. Like he could speak his mind without fear. They might not always see eye to eye, but John wouldn’t shame him or try to harm him. Not for speaking the truth.

“I think you should take your woman and child and get lost,” Arthur said quietly. John began to laugh, but it died away quickly when he saw how serious Arthur looked.

“Do you?” John said. It was clear to Arthur in that moment that John was wondering all the same things he just had. After all these years. “What about loyalty?”

Arthur coughed once, holding down a bigger fit by sheer stubbornness. “Be loyal to what matters,” he said, spitting some blood on the ground.

“What about you?” John asked. For a moment Arthur feared that John might try to hug him, and then he would surely be lost. He stepped to the side.

“I’ll be fine,” he said shortly. “But do it. For me. It would make me feel good, if that makes any sense.”

“A little,” John said, but it was clear that it didn’t really. Arthur couldn’t blame him. All these feelings were coming on so fast, and they were confusing to him so how could he expect anyone else to understand? The last time he’d felt so much all at once he’d been much younger, and most of those feelings hadn’t been brotherly love, exactly.

“Listen to me,” Arthur said, grabbing John by the collar as if he were a kitten. He shook the younger man, just gently. “When the time comes, you gotta run and don’t look back. This is over.”

John nodded. This time, Arthur thought, he’d gotten through.

“You know Abigail won’t let me leave you behind, don’t you?” John asked as they resumed unloading the wagon. Arthur smiled.

“There’s plenty of things Abigail won’t let you do, and I still see you manage,” he said. John grinned.

“Yeah, but this? This is different. This is family. Might be that she nags me, but Abigail is a mother through and through. A fine mother,” John said, unable to conceal his pride. “And as far as she’s concerned, she has two sons. One of them just happens to be your height and wear a stupid hat.” John slapped the brim of Arthur’s hat down over his nose, and they laughed.

“Make that three sons,” Arthur quipped, slapping John back.

“What are you gonna do?” John said. “Where will you go?”

“Probably straight to hell,” Arthur said, managing a laugh.

“Dammit, Arthur, I mean it.”

“So do I,” Arthur sighed. They were quiet for awhile, loading and unloading, working in a rhythm developed over years of shared work.

“There’s a woman,” Arthur finally said, quietly. “A widow up north of Van Horn.”

“The one you taught to shoot?”  
  
Arthur looked up in surprise. “How the hell’d you know about that?”

“Mary-Beth. She—”

“—Read my journal,” Arthur finished, not sure whether to laugh or be angry. “I should’ve known.”

“Guess you need to hide it better,” John said, unsuccessfully trying to conceal his laughter.

“Maybe I’ll just keep it in my bunk.”

“Like that would stop her,” John said, full on guffawing. “Might as well just lure her in.”

Arthur blushed, hard. He’d been doing that more than he liked lately, and he resented it. “Shut up,” he grunted, landing a punch on John’s closest arm. “She’s young, and sweet, and don’t want nothing to do with the likes of me. Nor I with her,” he admitted. “I couldn’t’a lived with myself if I’d ruined something like that.”

“Tell me about the widow,” John said. “I couldn’t get much out of Sadie.”  
  
“Damn you all and your damn gossiping. Like having a camp _full_ of wives, no wonder I never felt the need to get hitched.”

John laughed, more gently this time. “C’mon. Sadie said she’s beautiful.”

“She is, in her own way,” Arthur said, thinking of Charlotte’s eyes in the moonlight. “Takes a good eye to see it.”

“Spoken like a true artist,” John said.

“Aw, get on,” Arthur waved him away. He leaned against the cart for a moment. “She’s kind. Tough as nails, but with pretty hands. She ain’t afraid of anything.” He was talking to himself more than John now, but he didn’t care. “She thinks I’m a good man.”

“One of the best I know,” John said, but Arthur shook his head.  
  
“Naw, you don’t understand. When she says it, I almost believe it.”

John whistled, long and low.

“I’ll be damned. I didn’t think it was possible. I think that Arthur Morgan might finally have fallen in love.”

“Jesus, John, c’mon. You were there for Mary.”

John shook his head no. “Naw, you didn’t love Mary. Not really. You loved the idea of her, just like she loved the idea of you. But you couldn’t have lived with her. Well, not for long at least.”

Arthur opened his mouth to argue but nothing came out. He shut it again and fiddled with the rope on a crate of dynamite.

“I hate it when you’re right,” he said finally. John was smart enough not to gloat, but it didn’t stop the stupid grin on his face.

“So what are you gonna do?” John said again. They hopped up on the hand cart and began trucking it down the track.

“I have one idea,” Arthur said, “But it’s pretty foolish.”  
  
“So ain’t everything we’ve done in the last six months,” John said, and Arthur nodded.

“I keep thinking about how to get everyone out,” he said, the words coming quickly so he would get it all out. “How to break up the gang, I guess.” He shook his head, hardly believing the words that were coming out of his mouth. “Never thought I’d say it.”

“You were right when you said this is over,” John said simply.

“It’s just… Miss Grimshaw. The girls.” Arthur scratched his chin. “Even Uncle and the Reverend,” he said with a sigh. “If anything happened to them while I could do something about it, I…”

John nodded again. “I’ve had that same thought more than once of late.”

“See, if we could sneak a wagon out and get everyone up to Charlotte’s, we could…”  
  
“Dutch would never let them go.”

“I know. That’s why we gotta be careful. But there’s a way, I know it. There _has_ to be.”

“Arthur. Dutch’ll never let _you_ go. Not alive.” John’s statement hung heavy between them.

They rode on in silence for a moment, bringing the handcart to a stop near a ladder that dropped down over the side of the bridge. Arthur looked down past the bridge into the chasm below and thought how glad he was that a fear of heights had never afflicted him. John couldn’t say the same, and he was looking a little pale.

“You alright?” Arthur asked.

John nodded. “Let’s get this done and get out of here. I don’t want to be hanging around when the Army figures out what we done.”

Arthur surveyed the contents of the cart. “We sure got a lot of this stuff.”

“Dutch wanted smoke,” John said. He hopped down off the cart, trying to act casual. Arthur joined him, and hoisted a box of explosives.

“Time to blow up a bridge.”  
  



End file.
